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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27408517">what ails me now that calls you to me again</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/troubadore/pseuds/troubadore'>troubadore</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, but like. heavy on the comfort</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 22:02:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>766</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27408517</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/troubadore/pseuds/troubadore</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“You were poisoned.” Jaskier shifts around, taking the cloth from his forehead and re-wetting it in a bowl set on the table beside the bed. “I think the venom has mostly worked its way through you now, but a fever set in and you’ve been vomiting up practically everything I put in you.”</p>
<p>That explains the soreness of his throat: the aching burn of stomach acid. He hums—or tries to, anyway. It comes out so faint he barely hears it himself. He's <em>exhausted</em> and he <em>aches</em>, but he’s <em>alive</em>, and so is Jaskier, and that’s really all that matters.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>244</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>what ails me now that calls you to me again</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonedgeralt/gifts">stonedgeralt</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>a while back max wasn't feeling too good and asked for some soft fic and this is what i managed! ily max ♡</p>
<p> </p>
<p>this has been slightly extended from its original version so enjoy~</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There’s something wet against his forehead and a gentle motion moving through his hair when Geralt comes to. He blinks and squints at the light—soft candlelight, but still too much for his over-sensitive eyes right now—and groans.</p>
<p>The motion through his hair stops and he does <em> not </em>whimper at the loss.</p>
<p>“Hey,” Jaskier’s voice murmurs, barely more than a whisper. “How are you feeling?”</p>
<p>“Like shit,” he grumbles, voice rough, and he relaxes back into what he now realizes is his bard’s soothing ministrations. He closes his eyes again. Fuck, but he’s hot. And his limbs ache. And his stomach hurts. “What happened.”</p>
<p>“You were poisoned.” Jaskier shifts around, taking the cloth from his forehead and re-wetting it in a bowl set on the table beside the bed. He places it back on Geralt’s forehead and Geralt sighs at the coolness. “I think the venom has mostly worked its way through you now, but a fever set in and you’ve been vomiting up practically everything I put in you.”</p>
<p>That explains the soreness of his throat: the aching burn of stomach acid. He hums—or tries to, anyway. It comes out so faint he barely hears it himself. He's <em> exhausted </em> and he <em> aches, </em> but he’s <em> alive, </em>and so is Jaskier, and that’s really all that matters.</p>
<p>He makes himself take stock of his surroundings as best he can through the muddled haze in his mind: the candlelight, the feel of scratchy sheets beneath him, the smell of overcooked meat and horseshit and general human malaise.</p>
<p>But, over it all, there’s the scent of cinnamon and citrus, light and warm, comforting and <em> familiar, </em>and it eases the upset inside him. He turns his head and buries his nose in the soft fabric of Jaskier’s chemise. “You dragged me back to the inn?”</p>
<p>“Well,” Jaskier huffs, and Geralt pictures the way his lips have curled up slightly, his hand going back to Geralt’s hair. “I couldn’t very well leave you out in the forest to choke on your own bile, could I.”</p>
<p>His other hand ends up on Geralt’s stomach, absently moving in circles, fingers pressing ever so lightly as he rubs. It’s calming, <em> caring, </em>something he does for Ciri when she comes down with a stomach bug, and while logically he knows there’s no actual physical improvement to his condition, Geralt thinks it makes him feel a little better anyway. He's always thought his bard has magic hands.</p>
<p>After a few endless moments where he floats right on the edge of unconsciousness again, he asks, “How long have I been out?”</p>
<p>“Three days.” Jaskier’s fingers dance down along his jaw, thumb brushing over his cheek. “It was...a lot of venom.” </p>
<p>Vague memories of going after a nest of arachasae surface in his mind—there had been more than anticipated and they'd overwhelmed him for several moments before he'd beaten them back with a burst of <em>Igni</em>. He recalls the way the venom burned through his veins as he hacked at them, slowing him, and how he'd collapsed right in the clearing after the last of them was dead, in too much pain to move. </p>
<p>He's still in pain now, but it's much, much more bearable, thanks to his bard. <em>Death warmed over</em> is a much more preferable feeling than <em>agonizing burning hell</em>, after all. </p>
<p>Still, though. He'd probably terrified Jaskier, not returning that evening as he'd said, and then no doubt being found face down in the mud, blood-covered and burning to the touch, maybe even convulsing from the venom. </p>
<p>It's not the first time Jaskier has had to drag him back from a hunt aftermath barely-alive, but he knows it never gets any easier to bear the sight of your beloved in death's clutches. How his bard manages it—manages to continue doing it, doggedly and ceaselessly, and come out the other side with a gentle smile and tender touch instead of bitter resentment for putting him through the emotional turmoil—he'll never understand. </p>
<p>Mustering up what little strength he has, Geralt brings a hand up to grip at Jaskier’s wrist, squeezing it as best he can in reassurance. "I’ll be okay.”</p>
<p>“I know you will, dear heart,” Jaskier agrees softly. He shifts again, bending over, and Geralt feels lips against his own. The kiss is as gentle as a caress, barely-there and chaste, and he wishes he had the strength to chase it for more. “Rest, now. I'll be here to nurse you better.”</p>
<p>Geralt hums again, a bit stronger this time, and lets himself fall back asleep in his bard's arms. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hmu <a href="http://twitter.com/troubadorer">twitter</a> / <a href="http://geraltofriviasleftbuttcheek.tumblr.com">tumblr</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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